


The Fool’s Journey

by chicagotime



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Tarot, Worldbuilding, Yellowstone Magic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28032993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicagotime/pseuds/chicagotime
Summary: At the end of Season 11, each team was assigned a tarot card. Each card corresponds with the Fool’s Journey, except the Fool. Here, I have created a little Fool with my bare hands and set them on the Journey.
Kudos: 2





	1. The Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparks Clark receives 0: The Fool.

“Aaaand that’s all we have today on Numberrrrrr Radio! Tune in next week, where we ask big questions like: how many prime numbers can we name in an hour? What is a prime number? And, most importantly, will my boss finally pay me? Find out next Tluesday when the Crow croaks thrice! Haaaaaave a Nice Number Night!”

Hitting the outro button, causing disembodied voices to whisper random numbers directly into the ears of tens of listeners across the tri-state area, Sparks Clark leans back in their surprisingly uncomfortable chair, emitting a heavy sigh that can only come from people in dead-end jobs they used to enjoy about five years ago before they found out they couldn’t transition to the company they actually wanted to work for and are now stuck in this job between jobs, this intermediate state, this hellish capitalistic limbo, and children.

This action is especially impressive considering they’re a person made entirely of bright green battery acid that crackles at the outline like cartoon electricity, small sparks of electricity flying out at random intervals. They have no discernible mouth and a pair of seemingly normal headphones on their head(? How does it not melt? Immaterial plane logic babey).

The heavy description of the main character is interrupted by the entrance of a normal human man who slams the door to the studio open. He looks like Paul Blart, but refined, and has a much better mid-life crisis.

“Clark! What did you just say on air!” he yells, moustache crinkling with the anticipation of Going Off on a subordinate.

“Heyyy boss, what brings you here on a Tluesday night?” Sparks replies, a surprisingly smooth voice slipping out of thin air. They turn around to look at their boss, and they are unperturbed.

“You know I pay you! I always pay you! And yet every _goddamn_ week you come on air and you drag my name through the mud! My name! Do you have _any idea_ how hard I’ve worked to keep this radio station afloat? I had to mortgage my seventh house this month! Where will I keep my seven hundred salmon sons now, Clark? Where in the world could I possibly keep Salmon Steve, Lil’ Steve, Steve 2, Lil’ Stinker Steve, the Stevinator…”

Aaaand he’s back to naming his pets again. This is probably a new personal best, but Sparks really doesn’t care, opting instead to imagine his boss on his knees, begging them not to tell his extremely rich and famous wife how much money he’s spent on salmon and not on his kids, who are as famous as his wife, but are grounded forever so they can never find out about the fish.

“... The Nineteen Seventy-Steve, The Nineteen Steventy-Five, and of course, Wee Stevie?!” Oh no, he’s done, and his face is beet red. It would be funny if you cared, but they know too much about this man for any threat he makes to ever matter. He’s the worst Michael Scott they’ve ever seen. What are they going to do, embarrass himself until you leave?

Wait that’s a good idea actually. 

“I quit.”

A second of silence passes. It’s quickly interrupted by a spluttering boss who, as of one second ago, is no longer the boss of one Sparks Clark. “What did you just say?”

“I said, I quit.” Their voice, now diluted by static, has the harshness of someone who pities without compassion.

Spittle flies out of the boss’ mouth as he tries to salvage the situation, but it’s too late. They’re already walking out of the room. “You-you can’t do that! No one else will hire you! Where are you going to go, my son’s house? You know he doesn’t love you anymore!!”

Sparks turns around to look at him one last time. “No, but your mom does. I fucked her last night, and I’ll do it again. See ya.” And with that, they leave, a broken husk of a man seriously wondering if they’re actually telling the truth.

Sparks Clark strides into an empty street at 3 AM, and wonders what they should do next, now that their radio dream is dead. It’s all they’ve wanted to do, ever since they were born, the unholy product of battery acid and a toaster somehow colliding during the Big Blang.

And then they see a sign that says ‘BLASEBALL THIS WAY’. It’s neon green and flashing and bright, and has all the showbusiness-like qualities that one wouldn’t expect from a road sign. It speaks to Sparks, and they decide to pack a rucksack of meaningless items and follow the sign. What could possibly go wrong?


	2. The Magician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Magic receive I: The Magician.

It’s been three minutes, and Sparks is still walking. They have seen no bus stops, heard no one, and smelled no food. The last one is important, even if they don’t necessarily need to eat, because after every shift at the station they buy a chili dog from Sonic’s Big Dogs. The smell of those dogs could reach the upper heights of the Himalayas, which is very far, because you live in Wyoming, the least Himalayas-like place you’ve ever seen. What you wouldn’t give for a big old -

Wait. Is that a tree?

They look up for the first time in three minutes, finally focusing on their surroundings instead of the worn pavement beneath their feet that is now a beaten dirt path and hey that wasn’t there before! They live in a city, not some kind of tree-filled place!

Their head-shaped appendage turns all 360 degrees, taking in the trees and bushes and shrubs and grass and plants that now surround them from the front and back and also, coincidentally, the sides. It’s pitch black, except for the softly glowing Sparks and the dazzling stars above, trying their best to illuminate someone who refuses to look up out of sheer obliviousness like your boyfriend who refuses to close their eyes, even though he knows you have a surprise for him. You both know it, but he just won’t close his eyes! You realise that hooking up with him that one time and getting unreasonably attached to him just because he looks like a puppy sometimes was a mistake. You should have dated Dan from high school. He’s probably rich and famous and has his own puppy now. Sigh.

Anyway! It’s dark and there are some trees and Sparks is scared and now they’re tripping over bushes and burning them because they’re literally made of acid and oh no they didn’t mean to do that and aaaaaaaaaaaaaa and now they’ve stopped. As in completely stopped. As in they’re stuck in a fetal position, and they can’t move, and somehow they aren’t melting into a pool on the floor or shooting sparks everywhere or screaming with no mouth, and now they’re levitating somehow, up and away, over trees and trees and more trees but a different kind of tree this time, and they can finally see the stars.

Living in a city and working all night is a one-two combo that sucker punches the concept of seeing the night sky on any given day, leaving it clutching its own stomach on the corner of a bar trying not to throw up. Now, however, that metaphor doesn’t matter, because you can see every star that ever existed roughly one hundred years ago (for Science reasons that shouldn’t be investigated in this, a fanfic that has no regard for facts and every regard for both your feelings and mine). They’re red and yellow and blue and purple and they take the shape of a gash that cuts through the infinite darkness of the sky around it and bleeds specks of light that stare at Sparks like scientists taking notes behind what they think is a one-way mirror and makes them feel terribly alone until they see her.

Rising up from the ground is the largest dryad anyone has never seen. She has hair of pine needles that lay flat, rough skin of redwood bark, robes of thick moss, and eyes like those super cool geysers that you can see if you go to Yellowstone Park, which, coincidentally, is where this chapter is set. How about that!

The dryad speaks, eyes level with Sparks’ tiny, tiny body. “Hello, little one. You are far from where you are supposed to be. How did you get here?”

Sparks can feel himself relaxing now under her gaze, the comforting scent of lavender and picnics filling his nose. “aaaaaaaa…. uhhhhhhh…… I just…. followed a sign…… that said Blaseball……… and now I’m here……….”

“Was that sign glowing?”

Sparks nods.

“And green?”

Sparks nods.

“And very, very inviting?”

Sparks makes an “ehhhhh” sound that carries a ton of implied uncertainty.

“I see… Ah, so you’re a stray Fan.” The dryad leans back a little, eyes no longer fixated on the intruder. “Well, you’ve come at a very bad time. Everyone’s asleep in Yellowstone. And everywhere else, really.”

For some reason, Sparks feels despondent. They’ve only seen glimpses of Blaseball games from the community TV in what used to be their old workplace, and never really cared what happened. But now, for some reason, they feel a great sorrow in their corrosive heart for what could have been. Matches. Concessions. Fights with gods in very specific locations at very specific times. Idols. All things he could have shared with others.

“Do not despair, Fan. If anything, you have a greater advantage over others of your kind who worship us. You have all the time in the world to Choose your Team.”

Sparks sniffs, and looks up at the dryad with what they hope passes as a puppy dog look. “What…?”

“Ah. So you do not know.” She holds out a cupped hand, and the tiny acid person drops into the wooden hand without burning it, because Magic. She walks, stepping over thousands of trees and geysers and bears and a Murder Zone until she reaches the Ball Park, a normal Blaseball Field that is surrounded by caves, clocks, and surrealist towers.

“This is a Blaseball Field. Fans come here to watch games and cheer for their Team. When they Choose which Team to support, they become a loyal follower, doggedly trailing them from game to game, spending money and believing in their players. They become part of a community. They feel at home.”

She raises her hand so she can make direct eye contact with Clark. “You, new Fan, must Choose a Team. There are many you may Choose from, but I will not let you step foot in Yellowstone Parkpark or Ballpark for as long as we are here. This is a place of Magic and friendship, but above all, this is a place of Nature. And you,” she says, looking him up and down with mild disdain as his acid body begins to singe her hand, her eyes of geysers beginning to adopt a red tint, “are only a force of destruction here.”

Sparks nods. They’re more of a city boy anyway, and spontaneous woods like these are the worst. “So where do I go now? Are there more like you?”

The dryad nods slowly. “Yes. Nineteen, in fact. You may have to meet them all to find the right Team for you. But not to worry. The Gods up above have sent you here for a reason, and we who live Below them will make sure you are safe. But for now, it appears as if you require… a break.” She winds her arm back, hand closed in a fist that carries a Sparks that is too terrified to object, or in fact say anything at all. “Say hello to Lady Friday for me.”

And she throws Sparks Clark with all her might.

As she watches the tiny crackle of our protagonist soar into the unknown, she hears a deep whisper echo through the forest, taking great care to be heard by the dryad without disturbing its surroundings, for it must Leave No Trace.

”ARE THEY GONE?”

The dryad nods, a previously unseen weight lifted from her shoulders.

”GOOD. THAT ONE IS A WALKING DISASTER.” Pause. “THANK YOU FOR HANDLING THEM ON MY BEHALF.”

The dryad shrugs. “You do not need to thank me. I know you wish to remain a passive force in this forest, and that you are the reason I am here. I am merely... repaying a favour.” She takes great care with her words, avoiding the phrase ‘balancing a debt’ like a child tries to stop politics from being brought up at any family gathering.

”YOU ARE TOO KIND. BUT NOW, YOU MUST REST. THE WITCHING HOUR HAS PASSED, AND TO STAY UP PAST THAT TIME IS TO RISK YOUR HEALTH.”

The dryad, a magical creature with no need for sleep, chuckles softly but obliges anyway, melting back into the ground as a green star shoots toward Hawaii.


End file.
